Quotes About Isolation

It sounds as if you are trapped in a cycle of thinking about yourself and how you don't belong in the world.

Believe me, I know what it's like to feel all alone … the worst kind of loneliness in the world is the isolation that comes from being misunderstood. It can make people lose their grasp on reality.

Believe me, I know what it's like to feel all alone Ã¢â'¬Â¦ the worst kind of loneliness in the world is the isolation that comes from being misunderstood. It can make people lose their grasp on reality.

Believe me, I know what it's like to feel all alone...the worst kind of loneliness in the world is isolation that comes from being misunderstood, it can make people lose their grasp on reality.

For years they have pursued me. Their persistence has kept me underground Ã¢â'¬Â¦ forced me to live in purgatory Ã¢â'¬Â¦ laboring beneath the earth like a chthonic monster.

What had once been life's quiet moments of solitary reflection—a few minutes alone on a bus, or walking to work, or waiting for an appointment—now felt unbearable, and people impulsively reached for their phones, their earbuds, and their games, unable to fight the addictive pull of technology.

Believe me, I know what it's like to feel all alone ... the worst kind of loneliness in the world is the isolation that comes from being misunderstood. It can make people lose their grasp on reality. - Sienna Brooks

It talked about the isolation felt by gifted young people whose social skills could not keep up with their intellects and who were often ostracized.

De ergste vorm van eenzaamheid is het isolement waarin je belandt als niemand je begrijpt

The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.

As the droplets fell harder across his back and shoulders, he could feel his body disappearing bit by bit into the mist. I am a ghost.

El peor tipo de soledad en el mundo es la de ser malentendido. Puede llegar a provocar que uno pierda el contacto con la realidad".

He couldn't imagine how lonely it must be for a child to be so profoundly different.

The first time she had tried to kill herself, she had intuited that there was no escape. She had seen, with sudden clarity, that her life was a series of boxes, a maze that she would run and run through and never find an exit, and she thought, almost peacefully, I don't want it. I don't want my life.

How good it felt to be alone, stacking blocks. That's what came to him again, a kind of weight solidifying in his chest: how much he had loved to be alone - to be outside of his own life, a giant, sentient cloud looming over his imaginary city, hovering above it. There was a certain kind of blank omniscience that felt like his true self, at last.

reckon it was some combination of these things, the feeling that I was separated from the rest of the people of earth by an invisible wall, like a fish in an aquarium.

Miles away, the red taillights of semi-trucks were moving along the interstate, and Dustin was suddenly aware that there were people inside them, that they were traveling to distant places and they would never know that he and Rusty were watching them. It made him feel a strange, tingling kind of ache.

I pictured the sea as calm and motionless, no land to be seen in any direction. I have made a mistake, I thought. I need another chance. If I could only start over, I thought.

Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!

I can't tolerate cell phones," I say. "For health reasons." "Yech," he grunts. "Those things ruined the country. I don't know how, but they convinced the people that they should spend their whole lives inside a screen the size of a playing card. I'd take a jail cell over that bullshit any time.

We must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence, to find that enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song. But in that dance, and in that song, the most ancient rites of our conscience fulfill themselves in the awareness of being human. —Pablo Neruda, Toward the Splendid City

The old man bridled at this. All his life he had gone out of his way to avoid any situation that might be mistaken for a friendship.

Francis Crozier believes in nothing. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short . It has no plan, no point, no hidden mysteries that make up for the oh-so-obvious miseries and banalities. Nothing he has learned in the past six months has persuaded him otherwise. Has it?

We thought we were special, opening our perceptions, honing our empathy, spilling that cauldron of shared pain onto the dance floor of language and then trying to make a minuet out of all that chaotic hurt. It doesn't matter a damn bit. We're no avatars, no sons of god or man. We're only us, scribbling our conceits alone, reading alone, and dying alone.